


Of Acts and Arrows

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Clint Barton, Bows & Arrows, Circus, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint Barton-centric, Coming of Age, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Clint Barton, Kid Fic, Origin Story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28318083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: From carnie to mercenary to SHIELD agent - the life of Clint Barton. The target to becoming a hero is a long shot....In which I steal concepts from the comics and my own head as I write an origin story for Hawkeye. Warnings inside.
Relationships: Barney Barton & Clint Barton, Clint Barton & Buck Chisholm, Clint Barton & Jacques Duquesne, Clint Barton & Original Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> [Warning: Injuries, blood, and cursing are present in this story. There is mentions of child abuse and alcoholism. Please read at your own risk in case you are upset by any of these things.]
> 
> [Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel or its characters. Most of the plot in this story and some characters belong to me, however some of it belongs to the comics. I simply moved things around and took some creative liberty.]

_Five Years Ago..._

* * *

"Barney! Wait up!" A young boy of about eight cried as he tripped over his tiny feet.

He fell to the forest floor with a small grunt, landing face-first on the sodden grass and dirt. Twigs of varying sizes scratched up his bare hands and arms.

"Well," his brother Barney said impatiently, "you said you could keep up. Remember what you promised me?"

"Maybe."

Barney raised an eyebrow. He smiled, warmth filling his honey-brown eyes, and then he backtracked to his brother and lent a hand. The smaller boy took it gratefully and rose to his feet with his mud-caked sneakers.

"C'mon, Clint. We'll be fine."

Clint stayed quiet, dropping the pair of brothers into a thick silence.

Through the haze of mist and clouds around them, slivers of moonlight shown brightly. There was a gentle breeze in the air which tickled the tree branches and whatever leaves remained. The rest had fallen with the close of summer, now layering upon the ground in a mirage of brown and orange and gold.

Clint stared up into the sky. He watched as the moon, merely a waning crescent, rose higher and higher. It followed him and Barney as they trekked across the untamed land and seemed to taunt them. The moon was constantly changing, and Clint felt like he could definitely relate.

Lately, he'd been in foster home after foster home, each one worse than the last. There would always be some reason he couldn't stay more than a month at most (and that was pretty generous, all things considered). No matter how obscure it was, Clint and Barney were always scowled at and issued another temporary placement, for their social worker knew that it wouldn't last.

"Barney, look at the stars," Clint said.

"Uh-huh I see them."

"You're not looking!"

Barney reluctantly paused and squinted up. "How can you even see them? They're too small."

"But small things are the most important!" Clint insisted. "I mean, look at that one!"

"The square one?"

"No. _That_ one!"

He took Barney's hand and pointed up at an array of stars located near "the square one". Clint grinned his biggest shit-eating grin and giggled.

Barney yawned. "It looks like a fat pear."

"I think it's a dog."

"You think everything's a dog, Clint!" Barney laughed. "That's probably some constellation, y'think?"

The younger boy frowned in confusion. After all, he only had a few years of school before somehow managing to get in a situation like this.

"I—nevermind actually..." Barney trailed off.

Barney quickened his pace, watching his brother copy him. He glanced at the cracked wristwatch he wore, the time reading that it was still in the early morning. Dawn was just barely beginning to break over the horizon, illuminating the sky with flecks of pink.

He gritted his teeth. In just a few hours, someone at the foster home would realize that he and Clint had disappeared in the middle of the night. Whoever it was would call their social worker, argue for several minutes therefore wasting precious time, then they would reach an agreement of not calling the authorities. Barney had to agree—it was definitely a good plan.

"You got the map, Clint?" He asked, once again breaking the lingering silence.

Clint nodded and stopped. He shrugged off his tattered navy backpack and pulled out a thick sheet of beige paper.

The map didn't have any colors printed on it, just appearing in black and white tones. The brothers had printed an image of the local area of their state into the paper at a library inside their town, merely a few blocks away from their old home. Barney unfolded it, smoothing the creases as he went.

"If we're here..." he wondered aloud.

"How'd you know we're there?" Clint asked loudly, pointing at the map.

"Shush, little bro."

"M'kay!"

"But if we're here, then it outta take us another day or two of travel to reach the train depot. Then we can hitch a ride."

Clint puckered his lips. "That sounds bad."

"You gotta better plan? Besides, it's not illegal if you don't get caught."

"M'kay."

Barney slung an arm over his brother's shoulder. "Now c'mon, little bro! We'll be fine."

The day dragged on, and with it, the temperature. The sun was now fully overhead. It basked the grass and the brothers with heat and a bright light that was unbearable to look at. So much for being autumn.

Barney felt his throat get dryer and dryer. However, he tried to not let Clint see him succumbing to the elements. He was the big brother here! It was Barney's job to watch over and take care of his kid brother. But sometimes he wanted to tune into the rational side of him, the oh-so persistent voice screaming, _Y_ _ou don't have a plan! What are you going to do once you get on a train? Ride the rails?_

Barney snapped out of his thoughts and glanced at Clint, realizing his lips were moving.

"What?" He asked in momentary confusion.

Clint cocked his head. "Do you hear that?"

"Dunno," Barney replied wryly. "What am I listening for?"

The younger boy stayed silent and put a finger to his lips—the universal sign for _shut up._

It took a few seconds for Barney to hear it, but then he realized that he could hear...shouting? And metal scraping? He still held the map in his shaky hands, so Barney examined where he estimated they were. The map showed nothing being nearby except for rocks and patches of forest. A street was about a hundred meters away, give or take a few, but Barney figured they wouldn't be able to hear the mid-day traffic.

A feeling of dread filled him. What if he had guessed their location wrong? Barney realized that he and Clint could be closer to their hometown of Waverly than the train depot.

He increased his pace again, grabbing Clint by the arm ("Hey!")and pulling him forwards, away from the now-unmistakable background noise. Barney felt his heart pounding in his chest at the thought of Waverly, Iowa. The town was full of bad memories, the Barton family being nothing but a mutual whisper in the wind.

"Barney!"

He shook his head. What had once felt like a cool and refreshing breeze now made Barney shiver, the frosty air making his clammy skin feel like a glacier.

"Barney!"

Barney let go of Clint's arm and took a breath. He let his legs buckle out from under him, dropping him into a sitting position on the dirt.

"Just...lemme catch my breath, Clint."

"Here." Clint unzipped his backpack and dug around inside for the bag of half-eaten saltine crackers. The green plastic reflected the sunlight, but he ignored the glow and removed the clip at the top, unfurling the bag and handing a cracker to Barney.

Barney took it and began to nibble on a corner.

"Barney?" Clint said quitely.

His brother made a small noise to show that he was listening, albeit only half-so.

"I-I'm starting to think this was a bad idea. We don't even know what we're doing! We're lost! What if we never make it home?—what if..." _what if we die out here?_ Clint's question died on his lips. "A-and you're sick!"

Barney raised an eyebrow. "I am not sick!"

"Are too!"

"No!

"Yes!" Clint's voice grew louder, echoing through the forest and mixing in with the distant sounds of nature and the strange yelling. "Just look at yourself, sitting here in the mud with—with—I don't even know! A _disease_!"

Barney let out a humorless chuckle.

"Maybe we should just go back," Clint continued.

"To where? The foster home? We planned this out and you agreed to my rules, remember? We are going to ride a train, out of this stupid town. Maybe even the state."

"What about...the noise?"

"What about it?" Barney asked incredulously. "You're not seriously considering going to investigate that."

Before Clint could say anything more, or persuade his brother to follow along with a new plan, a new voice joined their chorus of arguments and questions without answers:

"Can I help you, lads?"

It belonged to a teenager, perhaps a year or two older than Barney. He had light brown hair that fell to his shoulders, framing a slender face and a thin nose between two eyes matching the color of his hair. Freckles dotted his skin nearly everywhere Clint and Barney looked. However, the bit that stuck out the most was the guy's strange accent—perhaps Australian?

Clint's eyes widened. While only seconds ago he'd wanted to have company other than his brother, he suddenly found himself wishing this stranger would just disappear.

"Um, I heard some yelling," the guy said with his Australian accent. "Are you folks new 'round here?"

"New?" Barney coughed, finding his voice again. "New to what?"

The stranger rolled his eyes at them and turned on his heel.

Clint made a move to follow him, but Barney grabbed his arm again. He mouthed to his younger brother: _No._ Clint hesitated, then tried to shake off Barney's tight grip.

"If it makes it any better," the stranger called back, "my bow and arrow is back at camp."

"Bow and arrow?" Barney repeated, suddenly feeling quite stupid. "Camp?"

With his brother distracted, Clint shook off Barney's hand and ran after the teenager. Part of him decided that it was a fine decision to run through a forest with a strange guy, a guy who could clearly use a weapon if necessary. The other part of Clint screamed at him to turn around and listen to Barney lecture him for ten minutes on "stranger danger", ignoring the Australian weirdo and continuing with their original plan.

Clint preferred the first option.

Barney sighed and cursed under his breath. (He was kind of glad Clint was so far ahead of him, as his words of choice were certainly colorful.)

The trio walked for awhile. Twigs and loose branches snapped under their feet. Small rocks, actually more like pebbles, had a silver glow bouncing out, the sun coating everything in its harsh light. Eventually, they emerged from the tedious amount of forest and greenery and into a spacious clearing.

Clint gasped.

Large sheets of red and white stripes lay on the ground. The canvas stretched out over the grass for at least a hundred feet, give or take a few. Next to it, Clint and Barney spotted several stakes sticking out of the ground, marking the diameter and dimensions of the biggest sheet available.

More people—the youngest looking barely Barney's age—were gathered around. One of them held a black sledgehammer and was pointing at the stakes with a determined glaze in his eyes.

The first person to notice the boys was a rather big bellied, plump, and short man. He had a top hat in his hands along with a black coat lined with gold buttons. A layer of sweat gleamed on his forehead, although Barney didn't think he contributed a lot to the project going on behind him.

The man frowned and made his way over, his black, beady eyes scanning over Clint and Barney as if they were completely alien to him.

The Australian teenager had already wandered off into the crowd, bored.

"Welcome, my friends," the plump man man said after a moment's pause, "to your new family. Welcome...to Carson's Carnival of Traveling Wonders!"

The only word that Barney heard was "traveling". He'd wanted to ride his way out of Waverly and move on. He didn't know what he was doing, nor was a plan assembled in his jumbled brain. However, maybe this was his golden ticket...

Barney looked at his brother. He looked at who he assumed was Carson. And then, he grinned without looking back.


	2. February 26, 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint can't stop his thoughts.

**_February 26,_ _1986_ **

* * *

Clint Barton used his foot to draw a straight line in the dirt, perpendicular to where his target board was. The board cast a long shadow over his scrawny frame and made the dirt look several shades darker than it really was. It lightly swayed to and fro, the board being thin and scrappily constructed from old planks of wood.

He took his stance and whispered three familiar words to himself, "Nock, draw, loose."

He pulled the string back and let the arrow fly. Then Clint allowed himself to grin as he saw the fletching protruding from the middle of the wooden board — a perfect bullseye. He stood there for a moment, silently celebrating his small success, before walking across the grass and fallen leaves to collect the arrow.

Clint checked the arrow. Its fletching was grey, purple highlights mixed in on the outermost layer. The splintering wood of the shaft scratched his finger as he traced each line and mark etched across the surface.

In his other hand, he held a small black bow. It was thin but thick in the middle where an arrow would rest before flying into the near distance. A string extended from both the top and bottom limbs. Clint's hand sat upon the rubber grip firmly, the other extending out in from of him as he squinted towards the target board sitting about twenty feet away.

The wind blew fiercely. It whistled and howled like a wounded animal, doing its best to mess up the arrow's trajectory. However, Clint found himself completely ignoring it as he trusted his fingers to automatically adjust to the situation.

Just when Clint nocked the arrow and drew back the string, someone slammed into him.

He fell to the hard, unforgiving dirt, dropping his bow. The arrow went wide and loosely went down beside him. Clint felt a heavy weight pinning him down, the weight sitting upon his chest and making it a struggle to breath. Panting, he tried unsuccessfully to find his voice and raise a complaint.

"Good morning! I'm glad to see you awake," said the familiar voice of Jacques Duquesne.

"Jacques, it's actually noon," Clint croaked, his voice hoarse and thin under Jacques' weight.

He scratched his wispy goatee. "Wait, really? I think I had one too many last night... Anyway, Clint, what've you been up to?"

"I'd appreciate it if you get off me."

Rolling his eyes, Jacques got to his feet and reached down to pick up the arrow. A thick tuft of grass was stuck on the tip.

"Y'know," he continued, "swords are way cooler than bows."

"There's an expression: 'Don't bring a knife to a gunfight'," Clint defended himself weakly.

Jacques shrugged. "As long as you're quick with a blade..."

Clint snatched the arrow back, allowing the grass to fall back to the ground where he stood. The surrounding ferns had begun to gain a bit of color, having lost the green to the crisp winter. And yet, the yellow seemingly merged with the sun in the cerulean sky; there was no middle ground between the two forces of nature. It was simply color upon another layer of the same tint.

A shadow fell on Jacques — merely a result of the fluffy white clouds floating above.

"Well, you've been no fun, Hawkeye!"

Clint tried not to grow annoyed. He knew that Jacques was just trying to stimulate an angry response out of him. For whatever reason, he seemed to thrive in situations where there was conflict, even going as far as taking the trouble with him. It was inevitable. Clint could already see the image burning into his mind: Jacques laughing and taunting a poor soul of his choice as he downed another bottle of alcohol and entered the escapism brought on by intoxication.

In fact, Clint couldn't help but think that Jacques slightly resembled a devil. Only slightly, of course.

Jacques Duquesne had curly hair that was the color of freshly mined coal lodes. His eyes always held a certain gaze, unreadable emotions flickering past too quickly for Clint to discern anything specific. They seemed to cut through anyone's gaze like a knife burning electric-blue and cardinal-red on the edge. Jacques' face was a mask of sharp angles and a pointed jawline. Perhaps it would be considered good-looking if it weren't for the whole "devil-vibe" he had going on.

Clint smirked inwardly at his thoughts. Nothing about his own lightly freckled face and blue-grey eyes betrayed how he judged Jacques at times.

He lifted a hand and waved Jacques off. A moment's pause passed by before the older teenager, around the same age as Barney, staggered off with a limp being only barely present. The only reason Clint noticed was because he had been there first-hand when Jacques had landed on his right leg wrong, straining the muscles and causing the leg to throb and throb and throb on loop.

However, he called back, "At least your brother listened to me."

Clint froze, one foot already taking up his usual stance while the other hovered above.

He wanted to mention how Jacques' way wasn't right. It was immoral and wrong, and Barney might've been paying the price for that. At least, that's what Clint guessed happened to Barney... They never saw each other anymore...

"Nock, draw, loose."

Lifting the arrow up and drawing back the bow's string, Clint let it fly right into the outer ring of the target. The sharp sound of the impact rang in his ears with a satisfying echo.

He didn't smile this time. He knew it was also immoral and wrong to not pursue a truth disguised as lies — lies ready to topple and turn at every sign of movement. A tower needed structure to balance out the top; their game of mistakes had reached the top, but when would it collapse?

In Clint's case, the blame sat on him directly. He couldn't convince himself otherwise. After all, he kept silent and ignored whatever Jacques and Barney planned — even if the plan was flawed in more than one way.

Sighing, Clint made his way to the arrow on automatic. He picked it up, running his finger over the fletching again.

Maybe he should talk to Buck — another innocent-but-not-really victim of Jacques Duquesne.

Then again, Buck wasn't involved anymore. He moved along to other circus acts, past being the star pupil of archery and an apprentice to Jacques. Instead, Buck retired from his old role of Hawkeye. Now he was Clint's mentor. The circus still needed a Hawkeye to forerun the trapeze acts and truly draw in the audience watching from the sides of the ring.

He shot arrow after arrow, unloading his quiver into the wood. Clint didn't even bother with collecting each one after firing. He just decided to leave them there for later, as a tell-tale sign that he'd practiced a skill already nearing perfection. And yet, Clint could feel the same sickening thoughts pricking his mind — that maybe this whole thing was just another example of running from your problems.

Maybe he was just shooting an arrow that he would eventually follow, like an old story he'd once heard about in school, back when he still attended one.

The story had described a group of Native American brothers, the smallest being the smartest and most ignored of the entire tribe. He eventually grew tired and took to running. Faster and faster he ran, hoping for the day he would be able to outrun the village and find a new place for himself. He trained by shooting an arrow into the skies and stars above, then chasing it until he could go faster.

One night, he finally managed it. He shot the arrow and ran after it, outrunning the problems he faced and the tensions with his brothers.

Clint wondered if there was somewhere else for him. Somewhere away from being involved in a criminal scheme in a circus enveloped in shadows. And if there was, he realized with a start, that he was determined to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up soon!


	3. February 26, 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and his oldest friend have a chat. Maybe this time it won't lead to the inevitable.

**_February 26, 1986_ **

* * *

Wood creaked beneath Clint as he pulled himself on top of a crate. The wood was stained brown like the dirt around him, circling the ring in the main circus tent. He sat there for a moment, cross-legged, barely listening to the conversation happening around him.

"I'd think he would know what he's doing. Years in this type of industry and yet Carson still acts like a complete airhead at times," Annie was saying. She leaned back and rubbed her temples.

Clint snapped out of his thoughts and glanced at her, snorting. "Oh please! As long as he makes some cash - he's not complaining."

"Still, I miss the days when he seemed to care."

"Did he ever?" Clint asked genuinely. "Wake up call: I don't think he did, Ann."

She laughed - a sound of happiness erupting from her throat that warmed Clint's heart. He loved hearing proof of his friend's happiness. Even after so many years had blurred together, the days running long as the sun set and the moon took over, he never grew tired of Annie. It still felt like just yesterday when he met her shortly after officially joining Carson's circus. Clint grinned at the fond memory.

Her gaze was both intense and soft at the same time. The blue of Annie's eyes held a certain clarity that Clint could only hope for, referring to the doe-eyed look he always carried. Her pixie cut of almond-colored hair was just barely beginning to show signs of growth with how it touched the bottom of her pink ears.

"It's just the small things, Clint. I know I've argued for years on how your age doesn't matter-"

"I'm thirteen!" Clint protested.

"-but I can't imagine you'd remember."

In a way, Annie had been his first mentor. She was also his first friend other than Barney. Clint remembered being upset over the fact that he'd been dropped off with a "baby-sitter" when he was younger, wanting to go and do whatever it was that his brother was doing. However, it didn't take long for realization to strike Clint - the realization that he enjoyed Annie's presence. And since then, she'd taught him tricks about the circus, trapeze, and basic concepts of math and reading.

"It's a blur," he admitted. "Sometimes I remember a voice asking me things about how I am, and really caring. I can't tell if it's actually Carson or not - I do have a rather wild imagination, y'know." Clint waved his hands around dramatically.

"Really? I also can't imagine that."

"Well then I'm the imagination; you're the brains."

Annie unfolded her legs from beneath her. "Brains," she repeated slowly.

"You thinking about a GED again?" Clint said. He remembered Annie explaining about the General Education Development test - how she was considering trying for one.

A GED was basically a high school diploma for dropouts or other teenagers with special circumstances. Clint wasn't exactly sure which category Annie fell into, but he suspected that she'd never gotten the full four year experience. He also didn't understand why you'd want to get one.

Annie shook her head. "No, no. I was thinking about what you said before that."

"That I'm imaginative? I'll also accept the use of the word 'psychopath' if that's more your style."

"That you're the imagination and I'm the brains. The way we split into two parts so easily."

"Oh." Clint fell silent. He didn't like the direction the conversation was headed.

Annie gave him a look of reassurance.

Clint almost wished he had a mirror just to stare at his wide eyes and frantic expression. With practiced ease, he smiled as genuine as he could, keeping his thoughts safely inside his head where they belong. He didn't want to burden Annie with his family issues (if you could call two people a family).

Of course, that was referring to the Barton family, made up of people considered to be dead or deadbeat. Where was the line drawn between friends and family? Or was a group of close, dysfunctional carnies close enough to meeting the requirements? Either way, Clint preferred the circus family he'd somehow acquired - even in the parts where shadows overwhelmed the light.

"It just made me think of you and your brother."

Clint inwardly cursed using what Barney had once called "colorful language". However, it wasn't an unexpected topic for him to broach. He knew better than to expect people to just skim over the fact that his brother was a totally lunatic _and_ currently missing. It reminded him vaguely of the dinners his family would have before his grandparents succumbed to old age.

Clint's father would be able to actually behave like a father, uncharacteristically taking his mind off of alcohol. They would be able to hold a solid discussion about whatever was happening - neighborhood gossip, panels in the newspaper, or the inevitable mention of football and the mess of global politics. Now those times only existed in memory. Sometimes Clint was unsure if it was just a cruel trick of his mind, an elaborate ruse to make him feel less alone.

How could one be alone amidst others?

"I used to think you were close. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part, seeing as I never got along with any of my brothers. I saw you both as a pair surrounded by people out to get you. Like the the whole world was against you. Annie waited before speaking again. "Are you going to make me sound it out for you?"

"Ann. You're my friend, not my therapist," teased Clint. Jokes were a go-to for avoiding his many unwanted mistakes from being brought up. He continued, "Maybe you could study psychology. What's high school like?"

"Clint."

"Uh-huh, that's my name. _C-l-i-n-t_. Clint."

It took a few thick seconds before it sunk in that Annie wouldn't fall for his punchline. He had been hoping for a stroke of good fortune, serendipity even, through a sudden change of topic. Clint fidgeted back and forth. With every minute gone by, the level of uncomfortableness in the metaphorical distance between them grew like a weed.

"Fine," he conceded. "You win."

"What I'm trying to say is that you and Barney looked after each other. Yeah, some of that fighting spirit might've gone sour at times, but you both still had a shield up and were defending a common goal.

"So, you going to explain what's been up with you two lately? I haven't even seen Barney in at least a week."

Clint sighed, looking up at the circus tent roof where the red and white stripes met at a middle point. "As a primary witness to this problem, Annie-"

She glared at him, although there was still nothing but softness in her eyes.

"Things have been weird, okay? I don't know where Barney's run off to, what he's doing, or why he's gone. The last thing I remember was telling him to stop drinking his beer before the last show."

"Just so that we're on the same page," Annie said, "the last show was on Valentine's Day."

"How pathetic. Imagine taking someone to a carnival-type circus scam for _romance_ ," he mused.

Annie reached into the back pocket of her denim jeans, the light fabric being specked in black markings from a Sharpie marker they'd found once.

She pulled out a wrinkled sheet of yellow paper. The picture at the center of the bottom was a crude rendering of a bow and arrow. Next to it was a purple blob that Clint remembered was supposed to be a drawing of the mask he wore during his act. Several pink hearts surrounded the arrows. Above, words were faded to the point where they were barely legible. The red and white trim was torn in one corner, cutting off a small triangle piece.

_COME AND SEE THE AMAZING_ _CUPID_ _!_

  
"Where'd you get that?" Clint asked, cringing slightly as he remembered being called "Cupid" in time with Valentine's Day. He struggled to see how a baby with an arrow symbolized love. He decided to stick to hawks.

"I kept it, of course. My main reason might've been for blackmail, Cupid."

Clint snorted. "Do _not_ start calling me that!"

"Too late." Annie grinned sheepishly. "Although, I'll raise an alternative."

"I'm listening," he replied. "I always like to hear all my options, yeah?"

"I won't call you Cupid if you talk to Carson. And I mean _really_ talk to him. I'd bet almost anything that he knows something about Barney, something that you or I don't already know." He recognized that there was something Annie wasn't saying. But Clint didn't push.

"Clint," she continued. "This can help you. You just have to take charge of it. Be resourceful with the people around you - talk with them. Talk with Carson."

He opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again. Words wouldn't form through the passing fog in Clint's head. They wouldn't string together to make sentences. He realized his attempts at ignoring Annie's concerns would just end up being futile, likely only dragging on into other future problem areas to be prodded with a stick.

Clint took a long look at the watch he wore, checking the time while trying to bury his feelings about Barney. For now, at least. It didn't help that Barney had been the one to give him the watch.

"Okay, I fold. I'll talk to Carson in the morning," Clint finally managed. The words tasted like sawdust in his mouth.

Annie ruffled his hair in a way that he figured was supposed to be reassuring. Clint thought that it had the opposite effect, only adding to his inner turmoil and evolving sense of paranoia. Somehow, in the depths of his mind, he already knew that he wouldn't like Carson's answers. _If_ Carson actually provided said answers, instead of tumbling down a flight of denial.


End file.
